Five Silly Things
by Juniper.Drive
Summary: Irene Adler always liked messing with other people's possessions. She particularly enjoyed playing with those of Sherlock. Complete
1. The Coat

**The coat**

* * *

><p>The minute he put it on after she gave it back, something similar to a chill ran down his spine. Sherlock sensed something in the fabric, something <em>hers<em> that he hadn't noticed on their first meeting. As impossible as it may sound, the genius detective had left something unnoticed about Irene Adler.

A scent.

It wasn't perfume. Miss Adler was far more cunning than that. A drop of scent could reveal too much about someone and she was well aware of it. That's why she chose not to apply a single spray of her favourite _Rose de Nuit_. An alien smell still managed to lingere.

To Sherlock's fine senses it was as if the coat had been…altered in some way. It did not wrap itself around his body as it used to. Perhaps the thought of the dark tweed against a woman's bare skin had a subliminal impact on Sherlock's mind. It was second-hand touching.

But the feeling soon drowned to Sherlock's disconcert on how he could have overlooked a mere thing as a scent. Form it he could have deduced the sort of clients she offered her services to, the possible fabrics and brand names stored in her wardrobe, the places she frequented…_the methods she used_.

_Damn it._

Perhaps Mycroft was right mentioning to Sherlock the case had something to do with sex. After all it was the only area completely blacked out of his psyche.

He wrapped his navy scarf around his neck slowly. Miss Adler had once again managed to give him a surprise of sorts.

Of course Sherlock would never admit _that_.


	2. The Mobile Phone

**The mobile phone**

* * *

><p>Anyone with the slightest interest in boudoir affairs would know that a meretrix's voice is an indispensable part of her job. Ms. Adler is no exception. She once paid 60 pounds an hour to learn how to dominate her voice for musical purposes and <em>other, deeper matters<em>.

Her expertise in the art of seduction had many layers but there was one golden rule. That single rule that made powerful men (and women, for that matter) fall to their knees:

_ Never make desire explicit, subtlety lies above all._

Who would have thought that the man who broke her schemes was one who had no understanding of _those subjects_ whatsoever?

She rehearsed for hours in front of the mirror, wine glass in hand. She played with her vocal cords, trying different tones, textures, octaves and cadences. Her other hand held his mobile phone amusedly, like a kitten with a sleigh bell.

Finally, after another glass of _rosé_, a mental image of him waking up to the unfamiliar sound sprouted in her mind. Two bewildered blue eyes and disheveled dark hair. Still slightly intoxicated. _Warm_.

She had to rehearse no more.

The coat was returned shortly after, along with the gadget in its respective pocket. Strangely enough 57 alerts weren't sufficient to make him press the Reset button on his phone.


	3. The Bed

**The bed**

* * *

><p>His bed is No Man's Land, a personal place where he can retract from reality and lay for hours, restless, sorting out names, ciphers and data. Still, Sherlock's bed is probably one of the less used pieces of furniture inside 221B Baker Street.<p>

He barely sleeps, that is.

The moment he set his eyes on her washed, sleeping face, he barely recognized her. It was an event he had expected in some way but not like this. Not this common, not this…human.

"_So this is what she really looks like, defrocked." _

It was true. Ms. Adler's king-sized bed was more of a work place than a resting one. Seeing her clothed and make-up free, calmly sleeping between a gentleman's sheets was as rare as watching a Consultant Detective composing sad music on his violin… or even eating.

He was meant to stare at her for a long time, and he did.

She is sleeping. On _his_ bed.

Invading _his_ personal space. Bursting _his_ bubble.

The thought of it made her taste the pillow with her grin and sleep sounder.

No one ever said it was No Woman's Land... and after all, she is _the_ one.


	4. The Violin

**The violin**

* * *

><p>The instrument was the only object he played with that somehow resembled the curves of an hourglass and the body of Irene Adler.<p>

'_Is there any point in bringing out a Freudian observation?'_ she thought. The fireplace crackled beside them.

The fact that Sherlock Holmes was a talented musician was somehow paradoxical. Irene remembered reading something about Greek mythology back in college, There was Dionysus, the god of wine, ecstasy…and music. His counterpart, Apollo, happened to be the god of logic, symmetry.

She contemplated on how the consultant detective, as apollonian as he seemed, happened to express such _passion _in his actions. The excitement of deduction, the nicotine patches…the way his fingers pulled on the chords in such an unconsciously erotic way.

"_He is writing sad music." _John had said.

'_Oh, is he?' _she thought.

She shivered to the idea of having stirred his elusive Dionysian impulses. She shivered much more intensely than any of her clients under her riding crop.


	5. Epilogue: Him

**Epilogue: Him**

* * *

><p>John Watson rested on the couch after almost two hours of going through his best friend's possessions. The limp seemed to worsen by the minute and at times the pain became unbearable.<p>

Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. Without saying a word she began pouring some tea for the doctor and for herself. Somehow she looked much more aged and tired than ever before.

"Look what I found in his room" she said, trying to make some conversation. "I wouldn't have guessed he was one to read Shakespeare".

She handed him a rather crisp looking paperback copy of _The Taming of the Shrew_.

"Yeah, me neither" he answered absent-mindedly.

The two remained in silence rather uncomfortably for some minutes. Their tea left untouched.

"I think we've gone through all of his things by now" she said. "Perhaps we should call it a day?"

"There's a drawer I can't open" he pointed across the room towards it.

"Ah, that drawer" she held the saucer with one hand and the teacup with another. "I once asked him what he kept in it but he never told me."

"Important things I suppose?"

"Who knows? I don't think he was very attached to objects."

"So I thought, except for that time when he asked me to…"

John stared at the ceiling with a frown between his eyebrows, as if trying to remember something.

Without adding anything else he dragged himself towards the piece of furniture and forced it open, breaking the lock.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"The camera phone. The one he once asked you to keep safe several months ago. I gave it to him."

"You did what?"

"He insisted and I gave it to him. Don't you think we would have found it by now?"

"What are you implying John?"

"Do you believe in ghosts that return to their homes and claim their objects back, Mrs. Hudson?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

The two remained silent once more as their tea went cold.


End file.
